The True Saga of Crazy as a Loon Erik
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Completed. The next logical step after True Saga of Weak Willed Christine. Erik is really crazy... and not in the best way. This is completely insane and rather morbid. Please forgive me.
1. Death of Christine

**A/N: I got stuck on my other phics and lost the new chapter of "Terms of Endearment." Chaos promptly ensued, as is its wont, and here it is, compressed into written form. Sorry for the in-jokes, a lot of you will get them anyway, and if you don't you may need to read some of my other phics. And review them. Of course.**

**The True Saga of Crazy As A Loon Erik**

Life is good when you live five basements underneath an Opera House with the rats and wear a mask and never ever see people.

Most people wouldn't agree with this sentiment, but then, most people haven't ever been in that situation.

I have. And I say its fun.

I created my own little world down there in the labyrinth— it was more than just a lair, it was tunnels and hidden passages and tunnels and other lairs and more tunnels and— two bathrooms. The issue of indoor plumbing is one that arose in recent years, and immediately I heard about the monumental new invention called a "potty" I knew I had to have one.

I instructed my minion, Jose, to get me one.

He looked at me blankly.

I said it again.

He still looked at me blankly.

"What is wrong with you, man? Don't you understand what I'm saying?"

"Oh, I understand, Master," he said. " But my name isn't Jose."

"Isn't it?"

"No."

"Oh. Why not?"

"Well, mostly," he ventured, "because I am French."

There was a bit of a pause while I allowed this to filter through my thought processes.

"Well then, Hernando," I said, "would you be so kind as to go out and get me one of these porcelain "thrones" that I have seen advertised in the newspaper?"

Another blank look.

"You get a newspaper?" he inquired.

"Yes, yes, of course. Delivered right to my doorstep. Newspaper boys are so accommodating about these things," I said, hoping Hernando wouldn't notice the pile of punjabbed newspaper boys that was hidden in the corner under a sheet with a large sign on it that said, "Punjabbed Newspaper Boys." That may have been a bit of a give-away.

Poor Hernando has the intelligence of one half a shrimp sandwich, and apart from casting a glance at the pile he didn't appear to notice anything amiss. Meekly he bowed at me— I bowed back, so low I nearly lost my balance, and then I did lose my balance, falling back against the wall and catching my head with a sharp crack against it, though he didn't seem to notice, just went on out of the lair as if I'd done nothing out of the ordinary, though he might have behaved this way because I often lose my balance when I bend over.

At any rate he was soon gone, leaving behind him a room empty except for me, and a vague smell of fish, which, when I threw away the fish, quickly dissipated. I sat down to await the arrival of Christine Daae, the young woman who had been forcing herself on me for the past several months.

I see nothing incorrect in a man having a mistress, but seeing as how I wasn't actually married, that relegated Christine to the position of girlfriend, and that was just wrong. I made up my midn to tell her that it was all over between us.

She arrived, her blond hair twinkling in the candlelight, her eyes blue, her dress brown, her skin white, her lips red, her shoes black, her stockings tan, her teeth white-ish, her fingernails dirty, her tongue red, her nostrils flared, her ears large, her neck unwashed, her scarf nonexistent, her gaze direct, her ankles neatly-turned, her voice inaudible, her bum small, her torso clothed, her toenails painted, her tonsils taken out, her hairpins glinting, her foot tapping, her arms folded, her face irritated—

"Erik, aren't you going to say anything? I've been standing here for the past twenty minutes and all you've done is stare. And why does it smell like fish in here?"

— her voice annoyed, her pores cleansed, her wisdom teeth coming in, her hips swaying—

"Erik?"

— her throat—

"What's that?" I asked, lurching forward, startled out of my delicious reverie by the sight of the ring that she wore around her neck. She looked down at it.

"This? It's a— look, Erik." She took a deep breath. "I've come to tell you that it's all over between us. Raoul and I are engaged."

"All over?" I repeated helplessly, forgetting that not half an hour ago I had been planning on telling her the same thing. "No more moonlight revels?"

"No."

"No more meetings on the roof?"

"No."

"No more bareback ridings, sometimes on a horse?"

"No."

"No more roses in your hair as I held your underwear?"

"No."

"No more picnics in the park in the dark in the stark with a snark?"

"What?"

"No more trips to Disneyland with your parents?"

"What? Erik— we never did that."

"I know," I said morosely, "but I had been hoping sometime we could."

"Well, it would have been impossible anyway. My parents are dead— and Disneyland hasn't been invented yet."

I sighed. "Twisted every way, then?"

"Erik, I do wish you wouldn't quote that horrible musical. It has no bearing on reality."

"Christine, are you really as weak-willed as everyone says you are?"

"What? No. Of course not. I don't think. That is— at least—"

"Christine, what do you think would happen if all the versions of me that ever were suddenly descended on the lair and another, _real_ man named Erik killed the fop?"

"Erik—" She ventured close and put her hand on my forehead. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Christine, what about if I put on a pink pinstriped suit and chased Raoul around the lair with a turkey?"

She dropped her hand and scoffed at me. "Now you're just being silly."

"No, I'm not, Christine— those are all dreams I've had— my brushes with alternate reality," I said, my eyes going dreamy and far away. At least I think they were, though of course, me being who I am, I couldn't be sure, on account of not being able to see into my own eyes, though if that were possible it would be interesting, and also save money on mirrors.

"I dreamed once that I got sucked through a worm hole and twelve hundred different Other Women were trying to seduce me— I dreamed once that I wrote a book called "Behind the Mask: Reflections and Musings of a Disfigured Musical Genius— " I dreamed once that I painted the gondola pink— I dreamed once that I had a certain relationship with the fop. I dreamed once—"

"Erik!" she said, for the seventh time. "I have said all I came to say, and now I will return to the world above, to the fop— curse it, now you've got me calling him that as well. I will return to the fop— Raoul, I mean! I will return to Raoul and leave you here with your oh-so-dramatic madness." With that she left, tripping over the stairs as she went and banging her head rather badly on the floor. After a few small moans she lay still.

I watched her. She was gone.

There was no need to worry. She always came back.

No matter how many times the story was told, she always came back.

Life in the underground lair was good. I had my whole world down there, complete with thoughts and dreams.

Sighing to myself, I went to my computer to work on my phan-fiction.


	2. Death of Raoul

**A/N: I can't believe I'm doing this. Look, after this, if I say it's a one-shot and then try to lengthen the thing, just shoot me, okay? The first chapter was conceived like a late-in-life child— with a great deal of fuss, caffeine, and little pleasure. Why am I continuing it? Why? You know what, you guys will have to answer that for me, because right now I can't seem to find a point. /fatalistic mood**

**Chapter Two: Death of Raoul**

"Christine, would you like some tea, dearest darling?"

No answer.

"Christine, I'm making some tea, shall I cause there to be a cup for you too?"

Still no answer.

"Christine, I'm going to murder some tea leaves and I will hold you morally responsible."

Again, no answer. Figuring she was confused by my admittedly peculiar turn of phrase, I backed up some and started from the beginning.

"Christine. I'm making tea. That is what. I am doing. Would you. Like some."

When even this got no answer, I confess I got rather annoyed, and nudged her inert body with the toe of my boot, several times, with increasing force, until I came to the conclusion that she was, that she must be, asleep. Whereupon I picked her up, carried her to the bed, placed her gently upon it, and apologized profusely for having banged her head into the doorway on the way.

No answer.

I scrutinized her. It had been some hours since she had run into the wall and I, caught up in my avid fan-fiction reading (I was halfway through Musique et Amour's "Music That Burns" and I was still waiting for the music to, you know, burn, and also midway through Mandy the O's "An Eternity of This" and was all pins and needles and cold-showerish from the sex scenes) hadn't paid her any attention in that time. It bothered me slightly that her skin now had a greenish tone and she was stiff as a board.

"Christine, are you— dead?"

No answer.

This frightened me.

I poked her, gently, lovingly, and yet still she did not stir. This frightened me even more. I've never had her not respond to my poking before. It was inconceivable.

At least, I think it was inconceivable.

I made a mental note to look up the word "inconceivable" the next time I was within striking range of a dictionary. Then I made a mental note to buy myself a notebook so I wouldn't have to keep making mental notes all the time.

I decided to leave Christine to herself for a while, and went back the computer. Thirty minutes later, having absolutely devoured Adison's "Sanctification" and sent Random Battlecry a very nasty review for that piece of crap known as "Terms of Endearment," I went to check on her again. She still hadn't moved.

I took this as an encouraging sign.

It meant she hadn't yet been turned into a zombie. Zombies, I must admit, are more frightening to me than anything. Except perhaps peacocks. Oh, and people named Paul. People named Paul are just scary. They have such big teeth. And the one I knew had a wooden leg, which he was fond of showing off to people, often by unscrewing it and placing it on the lunch table. This, I believe, is wrong. As well as distinctly unhygienic.

Recovering from my Paul-oriented mental tangent, I made another mental note to buy milk.

Christine still hadn't moved, and at last I finally began to suspect the truth— that she was, in fact, sleeping. I tried poking her again, and again, and again— all to no avail. She was dead to the world.

Once again the though niggled at my mind that she might, in fact, not only be dead to the world— that she might, in fact, be just plain and simply dead.

I rejected it as an opium fantasy called up by my unpredictable mind, then realized that I hadn't had opium in weeks, so I rejected it as a caffeine-induced fantasy, before recalling that Christine had broken my coffee grinder some days earlier, so I decided to call it a Pink Haze of Confusion, though it took me a while to realize why that phrase had cropped up in my mind, and when finally I did realize it, I went back to the computer to fire off another irate review to Random Battlecry, in which I called her a talentless purveyor of trash, garbage, hazardous waste, and recyclables to an unsuspecting public. By the time I finished with this I was chuckling so hard I had to go lie down for a while.

When I awoke Christine was positively cold, though the stiffness had lessened somewhat.

I decided it was time to call in an expert.

I went to find Raoul.

It took some time, because usually when he knows I'm coming, he hides. I can't explain this, as when I confront him about it, he always says of course he likes me. Usually the excuse he uses is that he's afraid he owes me money, but this time he couldn't stop sobbing.

I shook him.

"What? What is it?"

"I had a nightmare about you last night—"

"You had a dream about me?" I said, pleased. "Aw, Raoul—" Reaching one hand up, I tousled his hair. He did not react well to this.

"I dreamed you killed me!" he squeaked.

"Did you? But that's silly. Why would I kill my little fop buddy?" I did the tousling thing again. He shut his eyes and his teeth chattered.

"P-please put me down, Mr. Erik."

I did.

"Thank you," he said, and brushed himself off. He's a good foot shorter than I am, and I suppose I can be forgiven for treating him like a child. He is one, after all.

I don't care what Christine says, sixteen year olds shouldn't be allowed to be engaged.

"Raoul, I need you to come with me."

"W-where?"

"To view Christine's body."

He tensed up, but I had anticipated him and grabbed at his arm as he tried to run away. Gently but firmly, bravely ignoring his squeals of pain, I towed him down with me to the lair, made him swim the lake, and finally conducted him into the bedroom, where Christine lay.

"I fear," I said, "I very much fear, that she may get turned into a zombie, Raoul."

"What? Why?"

"Because that seems to happen quite a bit in fanfiction."

"But this isn't fanfiction, Erik— this is reality."

"Is it? Could have fooled me."

"And there aren't any zombies. There's no such thing. It's a story my mother made up to frighten me."

"Why would she want to frighten you?"

"My mother is a strange and complex woman, Mr. Erik."

"Ah. Anyway, don't underestimate zombies. Being dead concentrates the mind wonderfully."

"Mr. Erik—"

"Yes, fop, lad?"

"I don't suppose I can use your restroom?"

"Of course, Raoul. Down the hallway, first doorway on the right."

He nodded, bobbed me a curtsey, and took off. I returned to gazing at Christine, only half-hearing the sound of his footsteps pad away. After a few seconds I realized that I had made a dreadful mistake, and turned to yell.

"No, second doorway—"

But it was too late. Poor Raoul had walked straight into one of my ingenious, if I do say so myself, traps.

Now that I muse over it, I suppose there really should be a warning sign on the door to the alligator pit.


	3. Death of Madame Giry

**Kat097**: You're right, being worshiped _is_ nice.

**Adison**: Alligators are in season, what can I say? As for friend-plugging— (grin) I aim to please. Sometimes I miss, but the intent is nevertheless there.

**ElfLover**: Actually, Erik's neuroses are _my_ neuroses. I actually have peacockaphobia, or, you know, whatever, and zombies are pretty scary despite not being real, but Paul trumps them both. Paul. (shiver) We call him Pablo Diablo, and this is in no way an understatement.

**Mandy the O**: You can't be my Mini-Me! I'm shorter than you are! You can be the Chief Executioner though. Every world ruler should have one of those.

**Musique et Amour**: So. Fop death-by-alligator equals a declaration of love from Stalker Erik. I really wish you would have told me this before. I would have put alligators in everything.

**CHAPTER DEDICATION** to **Hoshi** for naming the alligators.

**A/N: There's in-jokes all over the place in this chapter. Sorry. Well, not really, but you know what I mean.**

**Chapter Three: Death of Madame Giry**

I couldn't help sighing to myself a bit testily. The fop was more trouble than he was worth, all things considered, and undergoing the requisite mourning period for him was not something I looked forward to, although of course the fact that I wear black pretty much constantly was helpful. So I did the proper thing and, before going to see what a mess my alligators had made of his little fop body, I went to my room and found a black armband. At least, I found a pale pink armband that _thought_ it was black, and used that. Improvisation is one of my chief joys in life, along with acting out. The truth about the whole chandelier thing is that it was just performance art.

Then I went to the door of the alligator pit, steeled myself, and pushed it open.

The bathroom looked back at me.

I frowned, blinked, muttered to myself, scratched my ear, scritched my back, patted my head and rubbed my stomach, did a backflip, wrote a sonnet, composed a Roy Orbison song, danced the hula, fathered children, changed my shoes, made some lemonade, pierced my ears, picked a bouquet, started a collection of Rod Stewart vintage LPs, and did other things that, basically, indicated my state of befuddlement and confusion. Then I realized that I had, in fact, opened the wrong door.

"Oops," I said to the room at large.

I found the door to the alligator pit, tried to steel myself again but I was already half-steeled still from the last door I opened, and opened the door.

The alligators made some "Welcome Home Erik," noises that sounded like, "_Gahnaharrracck_!" followed by some smacking of chops and low growling noises that, eventually, I discovered were actually coming from me. I looked around and located the body of Raoul. He was undeniably dead, but less badly mauled than I had expected. In the midst of my lecture to the alligators, I found it rather amusing that they had point-blank refused to eat him. I suppose even alligators have standards.

I shook my finger at them admonishingly nonetheless.

"Now look here, Richard—" I've named an alligator Richard. It seemed best. "—this eating people has got to stop, you hear? I know it just comes naturally, but look at me. You may not know it, but wearing skirts is what comes naturally to me, and do you see me in a skirt? You do not. You see me in trousers. All the time. Except when I'm alone, but that's hardly the point. Doing what comes naturally is not correct in ninety-nine percent of all known situations." My attention was diverted to another alligator. "Richard!" I named this one Richard too, so the other Richard wouldn't feel alone. "Richard! Give me Raoul's shoe this instant!"

Richard ignored me, as I had suspected he might. I was about to lay into him as well when once again I was distracted.

"Richard—" This was another Richard, totally different from the first two. "Oh, Richard, you appear to have eaten the fop's leg. Bad Richard, bad!"

Richard gave the alligator equivalent of a shrug and slid off his rock into the water to go seek entertainment elsewhere. This upset me rather, as Richard was my favourite alligator and, up till now, the one I could count on to pay attention to me. I don't like being ignored.

The quickest way to not be ignored is to shoot someone, so I shot Richard.

No, not my favourite Richard. A different Richard. A Richard that I wasn't too fond of.

Now, I don't want to get too disgusting here and lose my audience, but if anyone ever tells you that alligators aren't cannibals, don't believe them. I sighed harshly, or, to put it a different way, harshly sighed, slammed the door, and marched off to find the alligator nets.

Half an hour later they were safely ensconced in their individual pens, and I was able to collect the fop. "Collect" is, in this case, an incredibly appropriate word. I carried him to my bedroom and lay him next to the inert body of Christine.

Staring down at the two of them, I clicked my tongue in a sad way, muttered something sentimental and maudlin about being together in life as they were in death— well, apart from a little blueness on Christine's part, and Raoul not being quite all there.

Then I went to do something I thought was enormously appropriate.

It involved writing.

Not, as you might think, a funeral dirge to commemorate the deaths of my beloved and my beloved's beloved— at times like these its only natural to look for a silver lining to the cloud, and so I wrote a bleeding hilarious one-shot on the death of the fop, and uploaded it to the fanfiction website.

People who know me say my sense of humor is distinctly macabre. Interestingly enough, people who don't know me say the exact same thing.

Once that was done, I got understandably distracted by a few updates, though I'm not going to mention who by because I've been accused of commercializing my life, but rest assured that Ms. Battlecry was duly cussed out in exactly the manner she deserves.

Finally wresting myself away from the archaic computer, I headed upstairs to find myself a little consolation.

Consolation presented itself in the form of Madame Giry, a former girlfriend of mine who appears to have a soft spot for me still. She hit me with her cane when I emerged through the trapdoor into her room.

"Ow," I said mildly, rubbing the spot.

She hit me again.

"Ow," I said, angrily, rubbing more.

She hit me again, harder.

"Ow!" I said vengefully, stopping rubbing and reaching for her to enact my judgement.

She smiled and said, in her cute French accent, "Ha! That ees zee old Erik! Remember when wee were yong and wee beat on each othair all night long—"

"Yes, I remember, but I don't do that anymore."

"When did wee stop, Erik—"

"When you dropped the 'oiselle' part from 'madam.' It got me worried."

"_Why_ did wee stop, Erik?"

"As I recall, you broke my leg." She hit me again. "Ow! Knock it off!"

She put the cane down and threw her shoulders back dramatically. "Why are you heer, Erik? Were you still my beau, I would not have let you through the door without grabbing—"

"Please, I beg of you, no more trips down Memory Lane. My body can't take the abuse."

She sniffed and shrugged. "As you weesh. Tell mee why are you heer. This is a bad day, and my patience is already much tried. "

"I came for consolation, Madame Giry, and a little help."

"A leetle help?"

"Yes. With funeral arrangements. You see, there were a few mishaps down in the lair today—"

"Don't tell mee that all dose othair versions of you invaded again."

"No, thank God, nothing that bad. There were a few deaths, however."

"Deaths belonging to whom?"

"Christine. And Raoul."

For a split second, I thought she was going to cheer, but that would have been too decidedly out of character. She decided to smile thinly instead.

"And you need me for what, now?"

"Well, I had thought of a funeral, but I think I've randomly decided on a seance instead."

Her eyes lit up, and she grabbed her Ouija board, her crystal ball, and her cerulean sequined leotard from the cupboard. "Leed the way, Erik!"

I tried to, but she got all excited and pushed ahead of me into the secret tunnel. "Eet ees very dark in heer."

"It is, at that."

"Do you keep rats, Erik?"

"No, the rats keep me."

"Ha ha, very funny—"

I was the one with the lantern, it was pitch black ahead of us, and the stairs do tend to loom up rather suddenly. Or, rather, loom down—

There was a brief, startled shriek, and then the sound of a body tumbling down them.

I paused on the top step, peered down, and reflected that this was, indeed, turning out to be an incredibly bad day.


	4. Death of Meg

**A/N: Pioneering the thought that Erik may be the worst reviewer I've ever had. It baffles me utterly that he keeps reading my stuff when he so obviously hates it. Perhaps its because I make him and he has no choice in the matter. (takes a bow) **

**Chapter Four: Death of Meg**

I had just finished arranging Madame Giry on the lounge (because putting her on the bed next to Raoul and Christine just didn't seem right, somehow) when I got a terrific idea for a phic and hurried to the computer to write it.

It was the story of Christine and I, told from her perspective, only she was a complete ditz. She dithered about everything, and couldn't make up her mind, and was in love with me, and I wasn't really in love with her, and the whole thing went by rather breathlessly, with lots of innuendos. I wrote it and chuckled fiendishly to myself the whole time.

When I was done I discovered that Random Battlecry had, for all intents and purposes, already written it. Curse that woman! The bane of my existence.

I sent her a long and extremely nasty e-mail detailing what I was going to do to her cat when I discovered where she lived. Then I sighed deeply to myself and went to enlist some more help in making proper burial arrangements for the three corpses on my bedroom. Before I left, I made sure to leave a light on for them. Even dead people get afraid of the dark— which is rather sadly ironic, if you think about it.

The next logical person to beg for assistance was Meg, the daughter of Madame Giry, and so I went to give it a shot.

Now, this may seem peculiar and somewhat sick-making for a few of you, but Meg Giry has had a crush on me for aeons. Or at least, for as many aeons as she's been alive, which, I suspect, isn't very many— she may in fact not be even an aeon old. I'm beginning to think I should make the effort to find out how long, exactly, an aeon is, so that the next time I use the word I won't have to include all the boring explanation you just sat through. Gosh, I'm sorry.

Anyway, to put all that aside for a minute, I went and found Meg.

Or rather, Meg found me.

I don't know about that child. She has some weird sort of sixth sense about when people wish for her presence— likely it was developed when she was younger as a way to avoid her mother when it was time to do chores. I don't know. Regardless, I was halfway up the stairs to the main floor when I heard her coming down them.

She does this at least once a week. Gathers a candle, puts her hair back in a ribbon, and enters the passageway through Christine's mirror. Barefoot— always barefoot. With her toes turned out exaggeratedly, to prove the fact that she's a dancer. Myself I don't quite understand how she manages. She's far too top-heavy. I wouldn't want to be the male dancer who has to throw her around the stage.

And I don't quite understand what the fascination is— undoubtedly she's heard stories of how I mercilessly killed Buquet, the obnoxious stagehand. There's an entire backstory there, but it would take too long to explain at this moment.

Ah, who am I kidding.

It all started when I caught him trying on my shoes.

What?

Stop there?

Alright.

Moving on.

I could see Meg several steps ahead of me. She had her lantern and was holding it up next to her head, her mouth gaping open. I could have told her what was going to happen.

Moths and other bugs are notoriously attracted to flames.

The kamikaze moth flew right into her mouth, she choked, gagged, and swallowed. A coughing fit ensued that sounded like she was trying to regurgitate an elephant that wouldn't quite fit through her trachea.

The really bad thing about this is it happens quite a lot.

I stepped forward to assist her. This included giving her the Heimlich maneuver, for which she thanked me excessively once she had stopped coughing up a lung.

"Oh, _thank you _Erik! How can I _ever_ repay you?"

"Well, someday I may come up with a price, but till then—"

"A price? Oh, _Erik_, you're _so funny_, I can't hardly _credit_ it, you make me want to_ faint, _just_ faint away—_"

Meg is one of those people with the disconcerting ability to speak almost exclusively in italics. I find this interesting and also rather frightening. Yes, the truth of the matter is, Meg scares the crap out of me.

I didn't dare let on, however, otherwise she would have undoubtedly have pressed her advantage. And one thing I can't stand is people pressing.

"Hello, Meg," I said, a bit nervously. "Eggnog?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I was just offering you a drink."

I stopped talking and cursed myself for speaking disjointedly, almost at random— but that was what Meg did to me. She stood and stared at me with huge hollow eyes. The effect was distinctly unnerving.

"Er—" I said, "were you looking for me for something?"

"No, just the basic aimless and morbid searching for the Opera Ghost. You know, like I usually do. I forgot to thank you for having me down for tea the last time."

"I didn't have you for tea the last time."

"No?"

"No. There were biscuits served but no beverage as I recall."

"Oh. Well—"

There followed a bit of an uncomfortable pause, in which she smiled and giggled and I threw up in the corridor, took balloon-blowing lesson, brewed up a nice cup of decaf coffee, ran for President of the United Nations, didn't get elected, stalked Geoffrey Rush, wiggled my eyebrows, corn-rowed my hair, churned butter, gave myself an Indian name (Scrawny Beaver), mailed love notes to Texas, got shot in the buttocks, made shrimp scampi, walked in a circle, and began backing away slowly. I think all this made her confused, but she followed me anyway.

"Did you want me for something, Erik?"

"Want you? Good God, no!"

I'm reasonably certain my tone was horrified, but somehow she managed to overlook this. She smiled sweetly at me and I began to feel distinctly ill.

"But you were headed up—"

"Yes, well, there are some dead people in my bedroom, I wanted a little assistance, but now that I think about it, it is highly unlikely that you will be able to provide me the help I need. Unless you're experienced at sewing fop bodies together."

She stopped still and blinked at me.

"Er— _no_, not that I_ know_ of—"

"Ah, see," I gave a nervous chuckle. "Then, see, I didn't really need you at all."

"_But I'm a fast learner_!" she chirped.

Clearly I was stuck for it. However, I thought to myself, should she be of any assistance at all, it would be worth the annoyance.

She bounced closer to me and took my arm. I changed my mind. Nothing was worth this— this—

She smiled up at me. Her breath smelled like lizards. I didn't dare ask how she managed that.

"_Fop _bodies, you say?"

"Yes, fop bodies. There was a mishap in the alligator pit."

"Oh _dear_. How _tragic_ and _morbid_."

"Well, yes, death by alligator is tragic and morbid— death in general is rather morbid— although in this case, considerably less tragic, considering who it was that died."

She blinked at me trustingly. I gulped audibly.

The silence became too much for her, apparently, and she lunged at me.

I stepped backwards, and she fell to the ground, clutching me around the knees and making a high keening sound that immediately attracted all the dogs in the vicinity. As soon as she was covered with the baying canines, I ran for my life.

When I showed up again, she'd given up the ghost.

Some people just can't take being attacked by ten vicious dogs.

I laid her next to her mother and thought to myself that the day was exhibiting a worrying trend.


	5. Death of Carlotta

Chapter Five: Death of Carlotta

I tried talking to her, but didn't get much response, seeing as she was dead. Nevertheless, let it not be said of Erik Jass— yes, my name is Erik Jass— in fact, my full name is Erik Hugh Jass— what of it? — let it never be said of Erik Hugh Jass— stop laughing— let it never be said of Erik Hugh Jass that— look, will you stop?

Honestly!

People are so immature.

Let it never be said of Erik the Phantom of the Opera that he doesn't try to keep conversations going. I may not be a pro at the social arts, but practice makes perfect.

And yes, conversing with a corpse counts.

In fact, it's the best way to exercise your social skills. There may be a bit of a silence, but you don't have to worry about if its because they find you boring, because, as they're dead, they don't have a lot of choice. The alternative to this, I suppose, would be hauling an Ouija board around and attempting to contact them via that, but its efficiency is dubious at best and the dead never really have anything interesting to say anyway. Because they're dead. Not a lot happens after you're dead. Bingo, mostly. Monopoly if you can't handle the numbers.

I dragged the body down to the lair and installed Meg with the others. It was getting quite full there in my bedroom, and I seriously considered branching out into the main room of the lair before I remembered that I hadn't been planning on making a habit of this. Of course, things have a way of turning on you. It seemed quite possible, from the way things were going, that I was destined to make my way through the entire population of the Opera House one by one, as they became victims of unfortunate accidents.

For the first time it occurred to me to wonder what an innocent bystander would make of the five bodies in my bedroom. Would they think it was— well, strange, not to put too fine a point on it? Would they blink slowly at the odd array, nod their heads, and then back away and run for the police?

Surely not.

I don't think your average citizen would leap to conclusions in such a manner. Strange as it may seem, I have the utmost faith in humankind.

However, there was no question that it looked bad.

I stood with one finger to my lips and pondered for a few moments.

I could tell people they were a new sort of garden.

I could try to convince people that I was starting a morgue.

I could offer people a free one-month trial membership to the Dead Society.

I could bribe people to go away and forget they ever saw it.

Nah, that would never work.

Unfortunately, before I hit on a definite plan of action, Dame Carlotta di Pissi entered the room.

She stopped, aghast, her mouth stretched wide enough to ensure the death of anyone unfortunate enough to be sucked into it. I watched as, vacuum like, it sealed the fates of several small bugs and a bat. Her hair, likewise proving a trap, quickly had a sparrow entangled in it. There's just something about Carlotta that makes the animal kingdom go absolutely mad with suicidal mania.

"Monsieur Ereek!"

I have yet to discover why she thinks my name is Ereek.

"Monsieur Ereek!"

Perhaps I should tell her that she may refer to me by my middle name. Hugh.

"Monsieur Ereeeeeeek!"

Perhaps I should invite her to call me Mr. Jass.

"Monsieur Ereeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!"

Perhaps not.

I coughed discreetly.

"I am here, Dame Carlotta, there is no need to shout. I'm not deaf yet, you know."

"Youa are notta?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Monsieur Ereek, there are-a five-a dead-a people in-a your bedroom-a."

I coughed again.

"Yes, Dame Carlotta, there are," I admitted.

She glared at me with her small piggy eyes.

"Eef-a you were having-a party, why-a you notta tell me?"

I blinked at her.

"I— er—"

She glared at me.

"Perhaps the invitation got lost in the mail," I was forced to conclude, somewhat lamely.

She smiled, and began to take off her coat.

"That's-a whatta I thought. I know-a you like-a me."

"Did you? Er— do you? Er—"

She ventured quite close to me now and put one finger on my cravat, which had come somewhat askew during all my corpse-hauling.

"Do-a you think-a I don' like-a parties?" she cooed, softly as a newborn squirrel.

I sighed before I could stop myself. She had done things like this many times in the past, usually as an attempt to make me endorse her singing skills in public. I don't know why people think I enforce my opinions on people so much. I'm really rather shy and retiring. However, this time her blatant attempts to seduce me forced me to cock a snook— or is it snook a co— no, it can't be that. Anyway, I stuck my nose in the air to indicate how above such whiles I was.

Of course, I don't actually have a nose.

In fact my face is a bit on the frightening side, which is (I admit embarrassedly) why I wear a mask.

But the jerking motion of the snook-cocking caused my mask to slip, and Dame Carlotta got a very, very good— or, one should say, very very bad— look at my face.

She screamed, and stumbled backwards, and then laughed so hard she fell over on her what-I-shall-call-a-caboose. Unfortunately as she fell, she took one of my candles with her.

She uses far too much spray on that mane. Her hair went up like it was soaked in petrol, which, I suppose, shouldn't be entirely discounted.

Eventually, I managed to get the flames out.

Not soon enough, however.


	6. Death of Andre and Firmin

**A/N: There was some question as to whether I would kill off the Persian. It was pointed out that Nadir rarely-if-ever shows up in my stories, which is perfectly true, for the following reason: usually I forget about his existence. Now, I like Nadir— and I like the Persian even better— but I'm just too unfamiliar with writing him to come up with a good death for him (I had the same problem with Carlotta, another character who rarely shows up in my stories. However, Carlotta was just begging to be killed off.) So, if you don't like Nadir/The Persian, just assume that he met a terrible fate and it was too unimportant to be noticed. And if you do like him, just assume that he escaped because he was far too intelligent to be around accident-prone CLE Erik. Or, if you're like me, you can just assume that in this particular incarnation, CLE Erik doesn't have a Nadir. Its all in the assumption, m'dears.**

**Chapter Six: Death of Andre and Firmin**

Really, the amount of bodies piling up in my bedroom was verging on an annoyance. As I readied myself for bed I found it well-nigh impossible to move without treading on someone's hand or tripping over a wayward leg or fold of cloth. I even had to shift Meg Giry in order to reach my dresser. And then there was the issue of changing in front of all of them. I mean, yes, they were dead, so it wasn't like they were ogling my pale body as I went through my routine— but really, its just the principle of the thing, I find.

Having completed my toilette, and then flushed it, I repaired to the den to read some nice, relaxing fanfiction before bedtime.

Yes, yes, it was rather early, and yes, I suppose I have something of a reputation for being a creature of nocturne— if that's the way the phrase is supposed to be— it seems a bit awkward, but who am I to argue with my own poetic inclinations? Anyway the truth is, I didn't get my coffee this morning, and if I don't get my coffee, I'm flat out on the floor by nine thirty. And as the minute hand was now telling me that it was a quarter after, I knew if I wanted to read Soto no Hito, I'd better get cracking.

And after I got cracking, I turned on the computer.

Don't laugh at me, my eccentricities are not funny.

And anyway, I'm insane, and laughing at crazy people just isn't very nice.

Of course, on my way to Soto no Hito, I got sidetracked by the latest offering of that twit, Random Battlecry. The woman has irked me on a number of occasions, and I find myself very near to simply phoning her up and screaming obscenities at her. Or, at least, worrying her with some heavy breathing.

In fact—

Ha! Stupid girl has her phone number on her website.

I dial.

The phone rings.

Someone picks up.

"Hello?" A man's voice. Most likely her father.

"Yes, is Random there please?"

"May I ask who's calling?"

"No you may not."

"Fair enough." Well, whatever I have against the young woman, at least her father is sensible. There was some fumbling noises on the other end of the phone, and a female voice said, "Yeah?"

I panted.

"_Huh— huh— huh— huh_—"

There was a bit of a pause.

Then she said, "Erik?"

I stared blankly at the phone, and then said, "— no. Of course not."

"It is too you, Erik!"

"What? Who is this Erik you speak of?"

"I know its you."

"How would you know?"

"For one thing, its just the sort of thing you would do, and for another— I'm the one who's writing this."

I stared blankly at the phone again, but oddly enough, it didn't seem to help.

"No you're not!"

"Yes I am, I'm sitting here in my room typing out everything that's going on," she said, almost convincingly.

"I— I don't believe you! You're nothing but a halfway-house reject who writes God-awful fanfiction! You must be crazy, lady!"

"Regardless of my sanity or lack thereof, I am writing this. Hate to break it to you—"

I snorted.

"— yeah. Hate to break it to you, darlin', but you're a fictional character yourself. None of what happens to you is real."

I stared at the phone some more. Then some more. Then a little more staring, a little slow shaking of my head, a little poking at the phone, some slight hyperventilating, total disbelief showing in my face, underneath the mask, that is, some learning to dance the Macarena, some taking a course in elemental photography, some crowning myself Emperor of Siam, some tearing down the Great Wall of Anihc, a little gnab gib, re-writing popular fiction until its fit for human consumption, then giving some humans consumption, then going through their pockets for loose change, then sticking an entire Snickers in my mouth, two, in fact, then counting ants, and finally I had had it with the random actions and said, in a dangerous voice, "Just you sit tight, missy. I'm a'comin' after you."

I know you're expecting me to accidentally kill Andre and Firmin in this chapter, and I do so hate to disappoint me, so on my way storming out of the Opera House, I shoved them down the stairs.


	7. Death of Random

A/N: Yes, yes, we know I have Issues. That's already been discussed. Just read the chapter. And please take note that there is no way, no way ever, that even the Phantom of the Opera could get my sister to shut up.

Chapter Seven: Death of Random

Storming, or rather, walking quickly, as I'm not weather, down the street, I took the first right and stepped into a puddle. After being barked at by some large dogs, a two-week journey on a boat, during which we were attacked by pirates and I was the only one who escaped, bribery of the pirates to drop me off in America, being dropped off in Antarctica instead (bloody pirates), hitch hiking my way to Brazil, being kidnapped and held for ransom and then fighting my way free and swimming to Canada, being taken in by a nice family in Quebec, then journeying across country to Victoria, after which I had two nice rides on ferries, following which I stole a VW bus that had some stoned-out hippies in the back, and drove at a very slow pace (it was a VW bus after all) to Northern California, cut across the neighbor's lawn to save time, and found myself at the abode of the odious Random Battlecry, crap writer extraordinaire.

Taking a moment to compose myself, I banged on the door as hard as I could, hurting my fist in the process.

Almost immediately, it was opened by a tall child with bright blue eyes and a tendency to talk a lot. A _lot_.

"Hey!" she said. "My name is Larry! You're a stranger, I don't know who you are. Do you know who you remind me of?"

I tried to say something but she cut me off, rather rudely in my opinion.

"You remind me of my dog, Hannah. Do you know that they say pets end up resembling their owners? They say the same thing about cars. I don't have a car. I have a dog. We have five dogs. Do you have a dog? Would you like to see my dog? My dog's name is Jade. She's big and white. I'm teaching her tricks. I already taught her how to breathe. She's really good at it too, I just say 'Breathe' and she breathes right away! Its amazing, she's so talented. She's very special."

"I—"

"I taught her to sit too. I mean, she doesn't always do it when I say, but she knows how."

This seemed to be my cue, for she stopped staring and stared brightly at me with her mouth open.

"Er, uh, well," I said, rather at a loss, "perhaps if you synchronized your efforts so you were commanding her to sit at the same time as she was already sitting, you both would be happy. And, er, a lot better off. Er."

She grinned. "So are you here for a reason? Are you one of my dad's clients? Are you selling something? Should I be afraid of you? What?"

"I'm, er, here to see Random."

Her brow furrowed for a split second and then her face cleared. "Oh, Random. My big sister. Right. Come on in, I'll show you her room. But first let me show you _my_ room—"

I find it ironic that after coming so far in a relatively short time (provided you look at it the right way), once I actually arrived at my destination it appeared that I would be delayed permanently from achieving my goal. Larry led me to her room and then proceeded to talk. About everything and nothing. She and Little Lotte had quite a bit in common.

Did I mention that upon entering the house I was severely barked at by a ferocious Corgi?

Finally, just as I thought I would never be clear of this place, Larry suddenly about-faced and led me to the room wherein Random sat, typing at her computer.

The young woman whirled around to face me as I entered, glancing at her watch and grinning.

"Right on time."

"What?" I said blankly.

"Just as I expected, Erik. You got barked at by some large dogs, took a two-week journey on a boat, during which you were attacked by pirates and you were the only one who escaped, bribed of the pirates to drop you off in America, got dropped off in Antarctica instead, bloody pirates, hitch hiked your way to Brazil, got kidnapped and held for ransom and then fought your way free, swimming to Canada, being taken in by a nice family in Quebec, then journeying across country to Victoria, after which you had two nice rides on ferries, following which you stole a VW bus that had some stoned-out hippies in the back, and drove at a very slow pace, as it was a VW bus after all, to Northern California, cut across the neighbor's lawn to save time, and found yourself— here."

She grinned at me again, that ferocious and annoying flash of sharp teeth.

"Its all here. Written down. Or, typed, rather. Take a look."

Stepping forward, I leaned over her shoulder and glared at the computer screen as though daring it to show me all that. But there it was, large as life. Or at least, large as words on a computer screen. Which may or may not be comparable in size to life. I'm not sure. Up till now, I hadn't thought about it.

However, this is the point that the hippies who had been in the Volkswagon decided to make their entrance, stumbling slightly and grinning stupidly under the influence of whatever dubious substances they'd been inhaling, or drinking, or chewing, or smoking, or staring at so long their eyes watered. Much to my surprise, Random appeared to be delighted with them.

"Rainbow!" she said, greeting them one by one. "Sunshine! Moonshine! Monkeyshine! Moonflower! Glad you could make it, I had every confidence that you would."

Eyeing the hippies, who stumbled around her cluttered room examining things best left unexamined, I said slowly, "I just realized that they resemble someone—"

"Course they do," said Random, turning back to the computer for a moment and typing another few words. She grinned slightly. "They resemble four Tom Pettys and a Johnny Depp."

"Why four Tom Pettys?" I demanded, outraged on Johnny Depp's behalf.

She glanced back at me. "Because this way I have a barbershop quartet, all of whom sing with the Whine of Seduction. Not something to be sneezed at. Or coughed at. Or blinked at. Or any bodily functioned at."

"I've already used that line," I objected, crossing my arms huffishly and scowling at her in a way that should have made her crawl weeping under the desk. She stared back at me for a moment, and then crawled weeping under the desk.

In some pride that my scowl had had the desired effect, I uncrossed my arms, raised my eyebrows, and allowed a slight twitch of a smile to cross my face. She stuck her head out from underneath the desk, then allowed the rest of her body to emerge as well.

"Appeased your vanity, have we?" she inquired, sitting once more on the desk chair and planting bare feet on the desk. Her left toes twitched rhythmically to an offbeat beat that only she could fathom. I resumed scowling. She tapped shorn-short fingernails on the desk.

"Now that you're here," she suggested, "was there something you wanted to say? Sunshine, please put that down. Sunshine, that's breakable. Sunshine, you broke it. Sunshine, don't step on the glass. Sunshine, there's bandaids in the medicine cabinet. Why is it," she pondered, I can only assume rhetorically, as the hippy limped out of the room, "that he never listens to anything I say?"

"Perhaps because nothing you say makes any sense," I suggested waspishly. She thought about this for a moment and then admitted it to be perfectly true.

"But you did have a reason for coming?"

"Yes. I want to kill you."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot."

"How, if you say you're the one writing this fiasco, could you have forgotten that its entire purpose is to have someone die every chapter?"

"Well," she said vaguely, "I guess I was a bit angry with the world when I started writing it, and now— I'm not. I tell you, Erik, I've gone through some changes. Hormonal, personality, intelligence, bodily, mentally— a whole strew of changes. And I find that the world is indeed a better place for my existence here. I make my parents happy. I'm not a trouble maker, I'm an upstanding citizen. I do my best to make people smile whenever I can. I'm getting very close to not being a teenager, and feeling less like taking the world on in a one-on-one fight, and more like doing what I can for it, helping it out if at all possible. I believe I may have some sort of destiny, except of course that I don't believe in destiny. I believe that I may have some sort of purpose, except of course that often when I start my sentences, by the time I get to the end of them I've forgotten what exactly it was I was talking about, but I am assured that this is normal behavior for me and nothing to worry about. In short, Erik, I've found my place in the world and I'm not keen on leaving it. I've just started to enjoy things. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but that's the way it is."

I stared at her.

"You're a moron," I said, and tipped her chair over backwards.

She struck her head on the hard tile floor, and it was all over.

On my way out, I tied up the Tom-Petty-lookalike hippies because they dared to sing in my vicinity. I took the Johnny Depp hippy with me, however, because I thought he'd make a nice pet.

Little did I know—


	8. Death of Erik

Chapter Eight: Death of Erik

Back in the lair beyond the lake, I settle down to some serious fanfiction reading, absently petting my new hippy, who sits on the ground at my side, panting. I find on entering that Jose, my minion if you recall, which you may not, and it doesn't really matter because he wasn't very important anyway, just a sort of after-thought as it were, nothing to do with the story at all, really, apart from that brief appearance, and now he's dead, which is what I found on entering, as I had started to say all those words again. Apparently I locked him inside unknowingly.

Oh well. What's one more corpse?

Absently, once more I begin to wonder what would happen if the police walked in on the whole bunch of dead people in my bedroom. At least I didn't take Random with me.

At least, I don't think I did—

I'm paranoid by this point. I get up to check.

No, no dead writer. Heaving a sigh of relief, I settle back into my deskchair, the thought nagging at me that perhaps I should change my name, run and hide, go on the lam. Lam? Is that right? Is it perhaps lamb? Goat? Small pig? Hamster? Stoat? Weasel? Octopus? Can one be said to go on the octopus? Eventually, I settle for calimari, and by this point, I'm hungry.

Returning to the computer with a tub of Cherry Garcia, I settle down once more.

Engrossed in some of the worst fiction I've ever read, I suddenly feel curiousity stealing over me, and before I know it, I've found the author's biography page of Random Battlecry.

I scroll down the far-too-long list of stories the woman has written.

I find something which looks intriguing.

I open it.

And there I am, large as life; it takes me a few moments to comprehend that she originally intended me to be a one-shot. A one-shot— who wants to feel that they were only supposed to last for one chapter? I curse her name. How dare she condemn me to a one-shot like that—

—apparently she likes to do one-shots and then elongate them—

Snorting in disgust, I click off the computer, and it is only then that I realize that I've accepted something. I've accepted that she did write me; that everything she typed had come true.

I glance down at my hippy, who is engrossed in the carton of ice cream that had dropped from my listless hand. Very unwelcome thoughts are racing across my mind now. Also I had a stomach ache, but that, I assume, was from the ice cream.

If Random is dead, then who is writing this?

Am I real or am I fictional? False or true? Authentic or questionable? Unassailable or doubted? Bona fide or simulated? Keen-witted or delusional? Small or big? Thin or wide? Smart or dumb? Salt or pepper? Passion or fruit? Hamburger or hot dog? Angel or demon? Right or wrong? Light or dark? Willy or Wonka? Yin or Yang? Fred or Ginger? Freight train or cargo pants? White-haired or calico? Mustard or ketchup? Snogged or boffed? Intelligent or from Kentucky? A small wart or a large pimple? French fries or potato salad? David Wenham or Sean Bean? Red or blue? Democrat or Republican? Green Day or the Beatles? Mulder or Scully? Paranoid or chased by black helicopters? Confused or confusing? Annoying or annoyed? Hugh Panaro or John Owen Jones? Lemons or muffins? Snow or rain? Sleet or hail? Mailmen or doorknobs? The Three Musketeers or the Three Amigos? Don't Come Around Here No More or Mary Jane's Last Dance? Jekyll or Hyde? Should I stay or should I go? If I go will there be trouble? If I stay will there be double?

Abandoning this fruitless line of thought, I go to make some coffee; and yet the words are still there, in my mind. Kind of like me. In the minds of others. I don't ever seem to really leave. I simply— hang around. Forever. Its almost a comforting thought, if somewhat claustrophobic.

I'm tired of using Splenda, so I pep up my coffee with some rat poison. I hope this wasn't a bad idea.

I do so hate anticlimax.


End file.
